


In the Closet

by shutterbug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, I hope S2 doesn't completely ruin this, I love writing Greg, I really do, Male Friendship, Open Marriage, Pizza, Poor Tom, bros, california pizza kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Greg just wants to eat his lunch in peace. Instead, he finds an upset and volatile Tom.





	In the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> I had @soot-and-snide and @treasuredthings in mind when I wrote this, because they are my fellow Succession fan-people. :D Can't wait for Season 2. But I really hope that season doesn't make this...completely unbelievable. In the meantime, enjoy!

Sometimes on his lunch break, when he wanted privacy, an escape--sweet, sweet _freedom_ \--he squirreled himself away in the custodial closet. Just him, his lunch, and a dark room. Peace.

With his lunch delivered and in hand, he opened the door of the closet and strode inside.

As the door closed behind him, a fist made contact with his face.

“Oh, _fuck!_ What the _fuck!?_ ” He reached for the wall and found the light switch. His vision blurred with tears. He nearly dropped his pizza, but set it down on a shelf to his left--at least he had half-a-mind to do _that._ His lunch--if not his face--was saved. And, for that, he thanked sweet, zombie _Je_ sus; he did not have the cash to pony up for delivery more than once a week.

Not that he would let that become common knowledge. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to survive.

When his vision cleared, he saw Tom.

Tom assumed a defensive stance, his feet spread wide. His fists were still raised.

“Hey,” Greg said, with as gentle a voice as he could manufacture. He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey. Tom. It’s me. It’s Greg.” Before he realized it, his curiosity catapulted his next words out of his mouth. “What the hell are you doing in a custodial closet?”

Tom’s face hardened, although Greg could have _sworn_ that Tom’s eyes welled with watery tears. “None of your _fucking_ business, _Greg_! Get out! Get _out_!”

This time, when Tom swung at him, Greg ducked.

Tom connected with a few slaps. A push here. A shove there. Tom’s broad, solid physique blessed him with an advantage. But Greg absorbed Tom’s aggression and waited for Tom to tire. Then, he used his wingspan to capture Tom, wrap his arms around him, and pin Tom’s arms to his sides. He had Tom trapped, who was like some kind of massive, angry bird of prey that still wriggled, still wanted to peck his eyes out of his skull. That was Tom. At that moment. In his arms.

Tom threw his weight around in an effort to free himself. “Get your fucking hands _off_ me, Greg!”

Greg squeezed him harder.

“I swear to _fuck_ ing _God_ , Greg. I will have you fired. I will have you _fired_ and sent back to...wherever the _hell_ you came from. I swear to _fuck_ ing God!”

Against his better judgement, Greg tightened his hold, wondering if it were possible to squeeze Tom into submission. Like a boa constrictor.

“Let me _go_!” Tom bellowed. “Don’t fucking _do_ this to me!”

And then Tom bit down on his ear. _Hard._ With sharp, pointed teeth. Pain traveled up his head, down his neck. “Ah! Fuck! Jesus! You _bit_ me! What the _fuck?_ ”

As Greg cupped his ear, periodically checking for blood, Tom collapsed onto an overturned bucket, breathing heavily.

Tom’s breaths turned to gasps, which turned to piercing, high-pitched, wounded noises.

Just as Greg was contemplating how awkward it might be for him to walk backwards out of the tiny room, Tom’s voice flew into the air between them. Tiny and flitting, like a mosquito. “I’m sorry.” Somehow, Tom made the apology _sting._

Greg froze, his eyes wide. Those words--he had to admit--were the _last_ words he ever expected Tom to speak, in any voice, any inflection, any situation. Sting or no sting.

Greg was tempted to peek into the hallway, just in case a unicorn had materialized outside of the room. Just in case. Now would be the time.

Tom hunched over, cradling his head in his hands. Greg did not move. “Shiv says--” Tom said, then cleared his throat. He sat taller and shook his head, stretching his neck. His voice fell flat when he spoke, his tone robotic. “She says she wants an open marriage.”

“Open marriage?” Greg shuffled his feet. “What does...uh, what does that mean?”

Tom’s head snapped up. “It means she wants to _fuck_ other people, Greg! What do you _think_ it means?”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them. They both remained still.

Greg corrupted the silence first. “Other people? Or like, someone in particular? ‘Cause she...I mean, that Nate--”

“No. _No._ Shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up.”

Greg shut the fuck up. It seemed like a dismissal, Tom’s demand. So Greg retrieved his pizza box from the shelf and turned towards the door. With his hand on the latch, he summoned the courage to speak. “Are you…”

“ _What_?”

“Okay?”

Tom’s laugh shot around the room like gunfire. “God, you’re such an asshole, you know that?” He wiped at his brow. “Am I okay?”

Despite Tom’s mockery, Greg turned away from the door. “Are you?”

Tom stared at him. Longer than he had ever been stared at. In his life. Greg shifted his weight.

Finally, Tom directed his stare at the floor and shook his head.

His mother had always told him that he empathized too much. Sympathized too much. “Whichever one it is,” she’d said. “Don’t invest in people. They’ll fuck you over, Greg.”

But, at that second, his chest contracted around a sharp point of pain for Tom. He watched as Tom folded his hands together and ground them against his forehead. He felt the ache in his own skull, although he wished he didn’t.

“I fucking hate it, Greg. I _hate_ it.” Tom dropped his hands and bowed his head. “I just want to follow her around like some kind of jealous fucking _ape._ And beat up whoever thinks they can _fuck_ her. Whoever _does..._ Whoever...”

As Tom trailed off, Greg swallowed his response. He nearly pointed out that whatever Shiv did was probably _her_ choice. And if Tom should beat up _any_ one, it was Shiv. But not really, of course. Not really. So he stood there, pizza box still in hand, his uneaten lunch growing colder with each second.

“I just…” Tom’s hand swiped at his face. He sniffled quietly.

Greg searched his pocket for tissues. He wasn’t sure _why._ It wasn’t as if he ever had any fucking _tiss_ ues.

“I...I just want her to _want_ me, you know?” Tom sniffled on. “I want _her._ She’s...Jesus, she’s the only one I really want. Why doesn’t she want me-- _just_ me?”

Helpless, Greg shrugged.

Tom’s mood about-faced. Vulnerable to vicious. He stood up and advanced, forcing Greg to back up. Tom did not stop until Greg’s shoulder blades slammed against the door.

“I asked you a fucking _quest_ ion, Greg.”

Greg held his arm out to the side to keep his pizza flat and right-side-up. He must have looked ridiculous. “Uh…”

“What, you can’t come up with one _fuck_ ing thing about me that she might _poss_ ibly want?”

Panic rose within him. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just--”

“Well, come on, then _cock_ sucker!” Tom’s breath spilled across his face. He must have recently had a mint--wintergreen. “ _Look at me!_ Look at me, Greg!”

Greg’s eyes swiveled to find Tom’s face. Tom’s right eye twitched.

“ _Well_?” Tom prodded, stepping closer to eliminate the last of the space between them.

“Uh, y-you’re--” Greg stuttered, closing his eyes. “You’re, uh, a sexy guy. You have a, uh--you have nice hair. A handsome face.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , what is this? The seventeenth-fucking- _cen_ tury? A handsome face? _Fuck._ ”

“I just mean that I think--”

  
“What, you want a _piece_ of this, Greg? Huh? _We_ ’re not _cous_ ins, right? Here--” Tom seized his hand and pressed it to his crotch. Made him cup his balls, his dick.

Greg marveled at the thinness of his trousers and wondered how durable they were--how long they would last, if he wore them a few times a week. He channeled all his thoughts into the fabric of Tom’s trousers--anything to stop him from giving any thought _whatsoever_ to Tom’s, uh. His genitalia.

 _Genitalia?_ Jesus. Somehow, that made it worse.

And it was the only word he could think of when Tom adjusted himself to allow Greg a proper feel. “See? Feel it. It’s _big_ , right? And I know how to use it. I know how to _fuck._ I’m fucking _good,_ Greg.”

“Oh, I--” Greg tried to swallow, but found his mouth dry. “I believe it.”

“So why the _fuck_ does she need to fuck anyone else?”

“I...I don’t--”

“You’re fucking _use_ less, Greg.” Tom threw his hand aside. Then he stepped back, sat down, and looked at him, frozen there against the wall, with his arm still outstretched to keep his pizza flat and safe. Like an idiot.

Tom blinked at him, then asked, his voice suddenly calmer, more even, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just...uh, nothing,” he croaked.

Tom tilted his head. His eyebrows drew closer, as if he were confused.

So Greg stepped forward, opening the box. He thrust his small, personal pizza toward Tom, offering him a slice. “Here. Take one.”

Tom looked from his face to the pizza, then back to him, then back to the pizza. Exhaling heavily, he claimed a slice. As Tom took a bite, Greg found another bucket, turned it over, and sat down next to Tom, starting on his own piece.

With their slices more than half finished, Tom announced, “This is fucking delicious. What the fuck is this?”

In a quiet, half-embarrassed tone, Greg replied with reluctance, “California Pizza Kitchen.”

Tom slapped his thigh. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Greg smiled. He almost laughed. “No, it is! I told you it wasn’t--”

“No, no, Greg. Greg.” Tom’s face slipped into a deadpan, serious expression. “I mean it. Get the fuck out of here.”

Realization dawned on him. “Oh,” he murmured, standing up to leave.

“Whoa, whoa, peasant-boy.”

Greg turned, looking down on Tom, who had finished his slice and remained seated on his bucket.

“Leave the box.”

With a nod, Greg set the box on his vacated bucket. Like an offering to a heathen god. Then he made his way toward the door.

As he pulled the door open, Tom’s voice floated softly over his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”

Greg paused. He bit his bottom lip as a grin pulled across his face. Then he left the room and let the door close behind him.


End file.
